Let Sleeping Beasts Lie
by kittens-everywhere
Summary: Alfred decides to spend his summer in a tiny Pine Barrens town and while there encounters the monster that has haunted the locals for centuries. Featuring Francis and Arthur being generally parental and eventual AmeCan.
1. Chapter 1

This is also cross-posted over at my tumblr; I've decided that it might be easier to keep track of everything here, though, because I'm lazy and hate adding parts to the old updates._  
_

You can find this (and my other, non-chaptered fics) at kittens-everywhere () tumblr () com!

Quick Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine.

* * *

In the Beginning:_  
_

_(They say the Devil was born when old Mrs. Leeds cursed the child she was expecting. She hadn't meant anything by it, certainly. She was frustrated; she'd mothered twelve other children, and her husband was a drunkard. The Leeds were a poor family and could hardly afford to feed another mouth. So maybe it was understandable that she cried, "Let this one be the devil!" when she found that she was to bear another child; her words were born out of despair. But one does well to remember to take care with words: no one could have expected what happened that stormy night after the child—a lively boy—was born._

_The birth had been difficult, but Mrs. Leeds made it through in the end. All seemed well, until the midwife placed the babe into Mrs. Leeds' arms, whereupon its body started shifting and mutating. The women watched in horror as the baby's hands grew long, sharp claws and its feet transformed into dark cloven hooves. Its head lengthened and morphed, until Mrs. Leeds was staring into the glowing, red eyes of a fanged, horned horse. She couldn't help it, then, she flung the child away from her breast as hard as she could and screamed as the monster grew and grew. It stretched new, leathery wings and whipped a spiked tail against the room's shutters._

_The women's cries attracted the rest of the family into the birthing room, and they watched in terror as the beast leapt for the midwife and tore into her. Dropping her, the monster turned to the rest of the family. With a shriek, it caught old Mr. Leeds—he didn't stand a chance. By then, the eldest Leeds boy had found a poker from the fireplace and brandished it at the demon, which scrambled off of its father with a roar. It looked around, snarling, and with one last growl and a flash of red flung itself out the window and into the night._

_And thus was born the Devil that haunts the Pinelands.)_

1.

It takes almost an hour for the last of the city to fall away, but when it does, Alfred sighs in relief. He's still on the highway, but past Trenton, the area grows rural, and the air is clear so he rolls down the window and lets his hand catch the breeze. It's summertime, but New Jersey hasn't gotten oppressively humid yet, so Alfred doesn't mind the heat.

There's a doe, grazing with her speckled fawn at the edge of the woods beside the road. Alfred grins and watches the sun glint off of her back. New Jersey always surprises people, and he likes that about it. He likes the looks of astonishment on people's faces when they leave the Parkway and the Turnpike and the state's densely populated Northeastern corner only to find themselves surrounded by nothing but forest or, depending on where you are, the shore.

He's heading to Chatsworth, in Woodland Township, so he's got a little longer to go—

"Thank god it's the middle of the week," he mutters, "or else I'd be stuck in shore traffic forever."

—but he enjoys watching the state turn to countryside as he heads into the Pine Barrens, so he doesn't mind the drive so much.

Chatsworth's a tiny little thing, an unincorporated village that's known to some as "the capital of the Pine Barrens." He's got an old home there, right on the lake and a little ways away from the cranberry bogs that are the town's claim to fame. Its cranberry festival, the largest of any kind in the whole of the Pine Barrens, attracts people from all over every October.

It's maybe another hour of driving before he's close to Chatsworth, but he's very much in the middle of the Pinelands now. The whole area's protected—the Cohansey Aquifer is right underneath it, and it's got enough water for everyone in New York City and Philadelphia, and it's arguably one of New Jersey's most important resources. The state will never have to worry about freshwater if it looks after the aquifer, so the woods stay vast and wild and undeveloped.

The Pine Barrens themselves stretch for miles across the southern half of the state; it's over a million acres and takes up 22 percent of New Jersey's total land area—surprising, for his most densely populated state. But the forest is thick; it's hard to penetrate, and you never know what's lurking in the bushes. A man could get lost in those woods and be gone forever.

But Alfred's not afraid of the Pinelands, no matter what creatures may lurk between the trees. He is America, and those woods are as much a part of him as any other in the country. He could wander for days and never lose his way.

Oh, he knows they're dangerous—no one is really entirely sure _what_, exactly, lives in them. If that tiger that had gotten loose in Jackson a couple of years back had made it into the forest, well, they'd never find it again. Perhaps more important than the animals, though, are the trees themselves. The Pine Barrens are made up mainly of pitch pines: trees that depend on fire to reproduce. One stray spark and the whole woods could go up in smoke.

He knows the legends, too, of monsters that lurk in the woods just waiting for the opportunity to grab a person. The Devil will steal your soul, they say, so don't go wandering. They're just stories though, tales told by people to explain the unknown—and in the Pine Barrens, there is a lot that's unknown—and Alfred is not afraid of stories.

No, the forest doesn't scare him, but he knows that you've got to be careful, or else it'll eat you alive. He's got a healthy amount of respect for the woods, so he treads lightly, but it does not control him.

_Ah, _he thinks as he comes upon the exit, _here's my turn._

It's getting kind of dark when Alfred pulls into the driveway of his old house—the night doesn't fall this time of year till almost nine at night, but the sun's setting, and the trees make long shadows on the gravel driveway. He can hear it crunching underneath his tires as he pulls up to the garage and thinks that he rather likes the sound. It reminds him of days before paved roads and of horse hooves clopping. He grins to himself at the memory as he climbs out of the car and slams the door shut and makes his way to the trunk where his suitcases and cooler are.

The house is cool when he unlocks the door and steps inside and Alfred's grin widens. "Good old Clair," he says to the front hallway as he drops his bags beside the door. He can always count on his old neighbor to tend to the house if she hears he's coming down for a few days. Clair proves that she's well-worth the money he pays to keep house for him when he opens the fridge and finds lasagna sitting on the shelf underneath fresh milk and some eggs from his chickens. There's a note taped to the tinfoil covering, and Alfred plucks it off with a fond laugh

_Al—_

_Heat it up in the oven at 340! __**Don't**__ nuke it! _

_I saw to the chickens—old Mrs. Weatherby down the road has been on a baking spree and has bought most of them. The money's in the jar behind the coffeemaker._

_I also took the liberty of planting some peppers in that garden of yours. I know you like the heat of them._

—_Clair_

Alfred shakes his head with a grin, and leaves the note on the counter while he goes to microwave a slice of lasagna.

After dinner, Alfred drags his bags up to the master bedroom. The stairs creek a little as he makes his way—he can hear the old house settling beneath his feet, can hear the rattle of the breeze against the shutters, and feels welcome.

Alfred is fond of old houses. He likes the way the wood feels weathered, and he likes the smell of a house that's been well-loved. This particular house dates back to the early nineteenth century, although he's had to replace bits of it lost to fire. (That, of course, is the danger of the Pine Barrens. A wooden house cannot withstand flames.) The outside is white, with dark green trim and grey stones that make up the chimney. The paint's looking a little weathered—he noticed it as he was pulling up—but it's not shabby, and it can last a few years more without a new coat.

It was built in the style of the Victorians, although it lacks the bright colors that make the Victorians in, say, Cape May, stand out. But he loves the wrap-around porch and the big old garden in the backyard, and he has only a three minute walk before his toes touch lake water.

_It's a good place_, he thinks, deeply satisfied, as he opens the window in his bedroom wide to let the night air in. He can hear the crickets and the rustle of the trees in the breeze and as he stands at the window, leaning against the frame, he can feel all the tension from the last few months draining out of his shoulders. He needs this.

It's not too late out, but he settles into bed anyway, feeling comfortable and content. _This_, he thinks as he drifts, _will be a nice vacation_.

He's wrong, though. In the forest, something flashes red.

* * *

End Notes:

Most of my information on the Pinelands came from the Pinelands Alliance (pinelandsalliance () org), where you can see information about all of the animals and plants that live there, in addition to what's being done to protect the Pine Barrens. I've also used The Nature Conservancy's entry on the Pine Barrens. You can find it at nature () org.

There are a lot of variations of the legend of the Jersey Devil itself, so I've played around a little bit with it, but you can find out more at The Devil Hunters' website, njdevilhunters () com.


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the second chapter. It, um, turned out to be longer than I was expecting it to be.

Mattie shows up in this part, and Francis and Arthur will definitely be around starting part 3.

Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine.

* * *

2.

The next morning dawns bright and warm, and Alfred is laughing at the chickens pecking at his feet when he sees Clair coming 'round from the front of the house. He's about to wave good morning at her when he catches the look on her face. It's something he's never seen before on cheery, easy-going Clair: she looks worried, frightened, almost, and he wonders what it is that's shaken her up so badly and what he could do about it.

Frowning, he scatters the rest of the corn for the hens, and steps carefully over them as he goes to meet his neighbor. "Morning, Clair," he calls.

Clair tries to muster a smile, but Alfred can see that it's forced. She sighs when Alfred pulls her into a hug and murmurs, "Long time no see, Alfred. How are you?"

"I'm all right," he says, then pauses and considers his words. "I'm more interested in how you are. What's wrong?"

She sighs again and shakes her head and pulls away to look him in the eye. "It's a long story, boy."

"I'd still like to hear it, if you don't mind." He takes her hand and squeezes gently, unable to resist comforting one of his citizens. She smiles affectionately at him, and to Alfred, it appears a little less forced. "Why don't you come inside? We can have a cup of coffee, and you can tell me what's bothering you. How's that sound?"

Clair nods. "Okay." Once they're sitting, steaming cups of coffee in front of them, Clair begins. "I'm going to start this off with a legend, Alfred. It's going to sound far-fetched; crazy. But please just hear me out. You'll see what I mean."

Alfred raises an eyebrow. He's never been one to take legends at face-value. He knows—despite what he tells Arthur—that there are things that cannot be explained with science. He's lived far too long and seen far too much to doubt that. But even so, he is careful about legends, because legends mutate and when they take hold there's nothing stopping them. Still he says, "All right, Clair."

When she begins, her eyes go far away, as if she's looking through him. "My gran used to tell my brothers and me stories, growing up. She'd lived here in the town her whole life, and she knew these woods like the back of her hand. And she believed the old tales."

"Wait," starts Alfred, almost disbelieving, "you're talking the Devil legends?" He's about to continue when Clair silences him with a look. He shuts his mouth with a snap, and lets her speak.

"That's exactly what I mean, Alfred. Now hush and let me finish," she replies pointedly. When Alfred nods sheepishly, she begins again.

"Gran was thirteen in 1909." At this Alfred's eyes widen—he knows what happened that year—but he doesn't interrupt again. Clair grins a little. "That's right. In January of that year, the town experienced what'd come to be called 'The Week of Terror.'" She shakes her head and takes a sip of her coffee. "It was the Leeds Devil's most active week in all of its history. People were seeing the Devil all over. It'd come out in the middle of the night, cause a ruckus, and in the mornings, there'd be nothing but odd tracks and the corpses of livestock."

Alfred remembers. He remembers the state of emergency and the panic; he'd come to try and settle things himself, but he never saw the Devil while in the Pine Barrens, and after that, well, there hadn't been enough sightings to warrant any further investigation, so he'd put the incident out of his mind, and he'd thought his citizens had, too. It seems he's wrong about that, he thinks.

Oblivious to Alfred's train of thought, Clair continues, "My Gran liked to tell a story of her own encounter with the beast…"

* * *

_It's nearly midnight when Wilhelmina can finally sneak out of the house. Her newest sibling had been colicky and uncomfortable, and it had taken them hours to finally settle him down again. Wilhelmina is exhausted, but she's got work to take care of, so she can't go to bed yet. She grabs the rucksack she'd left hidden in the pantry behind the flour and pads silently through the kitchen and to the door._

_She closes the backdoor of their farmhouse with a soft click and leaps over the creaky second step. Sunny, their old collie dog, looks up at her from where he's chained to the porch but does not make a sound. She doesn't look at him as she tiptoes across the yard to the old barn._

_When she's there, she pushes the door open, careful of its squeaking, and slips inside. In the corner, partially hidden behind some old horse tack, sits an old wooden crate filled with hay and blankets. Wilhelmina sets her rucksack down beside it and peers over the edge._

_The injured fox lying inside yips at her and wags its tail._

"_Shh," she whispers, "you have to be quiet. I've got food and clean bandages for you, but you have to cooperate, okay?" She doesn't believe the fox understands her, but it quiets down and allows her to feed it the table scraps she'd saved from dinner._

_Wilhelmina knows that if her parents catch her looking after the animal, they'd be furious. They raise rabbits and chickens, and she knows that the fox would leap at the chance to get into the chicken coop or the rabbit hutch, but when she'd seen the poor thing, wounded and half starved, she couldn't help herself._

_She'd been feeding it and cleaning its wounded leg for nearly a month, now, and she hopes that it's almost healed._

"_Come on now, let me lift you," she murmurs, and the fox allows her to set it in her lap. She nudges it onto its side and gently unwinds the bandages from its leg. "You look much better." _

_The wound, which had been bloody and irritated when she first discovered the animal lying in the bushes, is healed over now, and Wilhelmina smiles in relief. "I don't think you need any more bandages," she says. "We can let you out now!"_

_It's a relief, she thinks as she drops the soiled gauze to the floor so that she can take the fox in her arms and stand. Sneaking out at night makes her nervous, and her mother has been getting suspicious of her: she's been more tired than usual when she gets up to feed the animals and milk the goat, and she knows it's only a matter of time before her parents figure her out._

_Wilhelmina carries the fox a little ways away, so that she can let it go in the bushes on the opposite side of the yard from the chickens. She gives the fox one last pat before she hears something rustling behind her. She thinks nothing of it, but the fox freezes where it stands before turning tail and darting into the woods. Wilhelmina frowns._

_When she turns around, she finds herself face to face with a monster._

_Her eyes widen in terror and her mouth drops, but she makes no sound. Her voice seems caught in her throat, and she can't think for a minute. She is close enough to the monster that she can smell the rotting meat on its breath._

_It's huge, over seven feet tall, with spiny dragon's wings and claws like tree branches. It stands on two hoofed feet and its tail lashes back and forth like a whip. But that's not the most frightening thing. Wilhelmina's only coherent thought is that now she knows what a horse would look like if it had fangs._

_Then its eyes flash like smoldering coals, and the spell is broken._

_With a shriek of horror, Wilhelmina darts past the Devil and toward the farmhouse. She can hear Sunny barking in the distance and concentrates on that as she runs. She can hear the beast running behind her, snapping twigs and growling lowly._

_She doesn't know how she makes it, but she manages to fling herself inside the house and into her father's arms. Her parents had heard her screams from their bedroom and had come running for her. She can barely tell them what she saw—she's sobbing too hard, trembling violently as she clings to her parents._

_The next morning, they will discover that Wilhelmina's is just one of many sightings of the monster that had been lurking in the woods for centuries._

_The date is January 16, 1909._

* * *

Clair finishes her story with a shudder. "After that," she says, "Gran never looked at the woods the same way again. She always told us that if a week like that could happen once, it could happen again."

"And you think it _is_ happening again." Alfred says softly.

Clair nods and takes a long sip of cold coffee. Alfred doesn't respond, only turns to gaze out the window, brows knitted in thought.

The sun has moved high in the sky during the course of Clair's story. He doesn't know what to think, but after awhile he asks, "When were the last sightings?"

Clair hums, twisting her mug in her hands. Her lips move as she counts the months to herself. Finally, she says, "Not since March 2009."

"And you're sure this is the Devil coming out again? You're sure it's not just some foxes getting into your animals?"

She shakes her head. "We considered that, Al. But the foxes dig holes under the wire; they don't tear it apart. And there are strange prints on the ground; they're too big to be fox tracks. The dogs won't even go near 'em."

Clair is convinced that she's seeing monsters everywhere, but Alfred's not so sure. "And you don't think it's other people doing it?" Alfred doesn't like to accuse his citizens of doing things wrong—things like going after other people's animals—but he thinks he prefers that to the implications that the Jersey Devil is around and active.

They chat for awhile longer; Clair tries to convince Alfred that the Devil is back, but eventually she gives up, and they fall into discussion of what he's been doing lately down in D.C. and whether or not he's got any romance in his life.

It's one of his old neighbor's favorite topics, and even though Alfred deflects her questions—red-cheeked and pretending that he's not thinking of pretty violet eyes and hair like winter wheat—he finds he doesn't mind her prodding. She is more at ease that she's been all day, and Alfred takes comfort in comforting his people.

When he finally sees Clair to the door, it's the late afternoon, and Alfred thinks that he'd like to nap in the last of the sunshine, so he settles onto the front porch swing and dozes.

* * *

Alfred winds up napping longer than he expects to, and wakes up to the night air chilly on his skin. He's not sure why he's woken up at first; he's not so cold that he's uncomfortable, and he spends a few moments blinking in confusion.

Then he hears his chickens causing a ruckus out back.

"Fuck," he swears softly, and pushes himself up from the swing. Although he's sure it's foxes—of maybe black bears; they've been showing up in the area recently—Alfred can't stop Clair's words from echoing in the back of his mind.

If he is certain about anything, it's that he does not want to deal with the Jersey Devil.

"No," he says aloud to himself, with a shake to his head. "I am _not_ following that train of thought."

Even so, his heart pounds, and he swallows thickly as he creeps around the house. He wishes he had some sort of weapon with him—anything would do, he thinks, as long as he had it in hand.

He knees tremble as he comes around the edge, but when the chicken coop comes into view, there's nothing. The birds are frightened, there's no doubt about that; he can see them huddled together and shaking, and there are blood and feathers near the wiring, but apart from that, there is no indication that anything is nearby.

He kneels beside the mess and curses when he sees the scuffed dirt. It's too dark to make out the tracks, but Alfred can see that something was trying to dig under the fence. _Foxes, then_, he thinks firmly and concentrates on calming his birds.

"Now, now," he murmurs to them as he stands to bring the hose over. "I'll just wash this away, and you'll be all right." The birds quiet down when he speaks to them—they know who he is; animals are always able to recognize him—and he continues to speak softly to them as he hoses down the bloody soil.

When the chickens are finally settled, he trudges inside and up to bed and tries not to think too much about what had happened while he was sleeping just a few yards away.

Still, he spends the night tossing and turning.

* * *

In the morning, he wakes up to the phone ringing and answers it with a weary grumble.

"'llo?" he slurs, half awake.

"Morning, Al. It's me," Matthew says, and Alfred's instantly more alert.

"Oh! I'm sorry, Mattie. G'morning." He's sure he still sounds tired, but he finds that his voice brightens when he realizes who's called. Something about Matthew eases the tension from his muscles, and he's able to put his troubled dreams out of his mind.

And then Matthew, always perceptive, asks, "What's the matter?"

Alfred freezes, wincing, and replies, "What makes you think something's wrong?"

"It's eleven in the morning, Al, and you were still asleep. You're usually up with the sun. C'mon, tell me what happened. Did you stay up watching horror movies again?"

"Hey!" Alfred says, indignant. "I don't get scared watching horror movies." He ignores Matthew's disbelieving snort and admits, "But I didn't sleep well. Something got into my chicken run last night." He sighs. "I think it was a fox or something, because the dirt was all scuffed like something was trying to dig into it, but when I got there, I didn't see anything but frightened hens."

Matthew doesn't answer for a moment. "There's more than that," he says finally. "What is it?"

"How did you…?"

"I know you Al. You wouldn't've lost so much sleep if it was only a fox. You've lost animals to them before."

Matthew's words set something warm and comforting in the pit of his stomach, and the smile that he's been wearing since he realized that it was Matthew on the phone turns soft and wondering. Matthew's right: he knows Alfred, probably better than anyone else does, and the thought pleases him more than it should.

"Alfred?" Matthew asks and shakes Alfred out of his daydreaming.

"Sorry, Mattie." He sighs. "You're right," he tells Matthew. "Clair and some of the other townspeople are convinced it's the Devil getting into things. Apparently there've been more sighting than usual happening lately."

"The Jersey Devil?" Matthew asks, surprised. "Those old stories are still going strong, huh?"

Alfred grins a little. "People have never really stopped seeing it. But I dunno, there's got to be another explanation for it, you know?"

"Didn't you mention something about black bears showing up more often in the area?"

Alfred nods, smiling a little. "They were pushed out years ago, with the wolves and cougars, but they seem to be coming back."

"You're pleased about that."

"More than I should be," he admits. "They're dangerous when people feed them, but they're supposed to be in the woods. It… It wasn't right when they were gone."

Matthew hums in agreement. He knows the ache, like something's missing, when their animals are displaced, and it's always nice when they manage to find their way back despite what their people think.

Alfred continues, "There are also coyotes and weasels in the woods. I'm just not convinced that there's anything supernatural about it."

"But it's still in the back of your mind," Matthew says knowingly. "Imagine what Arthur would say, if he heard you were entertaining the possibility of demons."

"Hey! I know that it's possible!"

"I know, I know," Matthew laughs. "But only as a last resort, if there's nothing else."

"Of course." Alfred rolls his eyes. "Just because you don't understand something at first doesn't mean that there isn't a normal explanation for it."

"Just be careful, Al."

"It's just animals, Matt," Alfred says firmly. "I don't know what kind of animal yet, but I'll find out, and I'll chase it away from the town and that'll be that." He ignores the lingering suspicion in his gut that perhaps Clair's assertion is not as far out as he wants it to be. "Besides, when am I not careful?"

"Well…" Matt begins.

"It was a rhetorical question!"

Matthew laughs at him, and Alfred feels butterflies let loose in his belly. There's something deeply satisfying about being the one who causes that sound, even if it's at his own expense.

"Anyway," Matthew says, stifling the last of his chuckles, "I was wondering if you wanted to come to Toronto with me after the meetings in a few days are over? The Jays are playing the Yanks, and I thought that maybe we could go, if you wanted."

Alfred grins. He'd been planning on floating on the lake for the rest of the summer, but he can't pass up a chance to spend time with Matthew, so he says, "Definitely! Send me your flight info home, and I'll change my ticket so we can fly back together."

Matthew laughs at his enthusiasm and tells him that he'll email the information to him right away. Before he hangs up, he says, "Hey, Al? Don't worry about the stories anymore, okay? You're probably right about in just being a renegade animal, so don't lose sleep over it. I'll see you in London, all right?"

"Yeah, Mattie, see you then." He pauses and the murmurs, "And Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

He can hear the smile in Matt's voice when he replies. "Any time, Al. Take care."

"You too!"

The conversation with Matthew makes him feel better, although it doesn't completely ease his mind, and he winds up distracted all day.

Despite what he tells himself, the Jersey Devil makes him nervous, and he does not want a repeat of 1909. Alfred stares grimly at the laundry in his hands as he remembers the people's terror that week. New Jersey had declared a state of emergency, and the sightings had even gone beyond the Pine Barrens and into Pennsylvania and Upstate New York. Everyone had been in a panic, and Alfred remembers feeling helpless, because there was nothing he could do about it.

(He did not see the Jersey Devil then and has not seen it himself since 1740 when Netherlands had suggested an exorcism to rid his people of it, before it had disappeared, ending up as what he thought was nothing but a story.)

Alfred sighs and drops his laundry back into the basket; he doesn't generally like to believe in old stories, but they tend to have a grain of truth to them, somewhere, and he has the sinking suspicion that Clair's story is truer than he wants to believe.

As the shadows in his yard lengthen, Alfred finds himself making sure that his shotgun is in working order. He cleans and checks it methodically once, twice, three times before he realizes what he's doing, and when he does, he bites his lip and sighs mightily and realizes what he'd already subconsciously decided: he'll wait up for whatever's getting his birds, and he'll end it tonight.

Or so he thinks.

Alfred is dozing just outside the back door, the one that overlooks his coop, when he hears the chickens crying again. He jumps to his feet and is edging silently forward when he gets a glimpse of whatever's on the far edge of the chicken coop.

His blood freezes in his veins, and his stomach sinks, because there in the shadows stands a hulking, dark figure clawing at the dirt beneath the fence. Its wings flutter restlessly and its tail lashes back and forth like a whip as it tries to reach the frightened hens. He breaths sharply, and the creature looks up at him. Its eyes flash red in the darkness, and for a moment the only sound is the whisper of the wind through the trees.

Then, with a roar, the beast leaves the coop and leaps for him. Alfred, as he scrambles back, shoots at the thing as quickly as he can. The bullet misses: it ricochets off the fence post and up into the trees, and Alfred curses as he leaps away.

"Dammit," he says, as the Jersey Devil whips its head around to face him. The long, pointed teeth make him sick to his stomach—they don't look right, on a horse's head, not with its longs face and awful, glowing eyes—but he raises his gun again, and prepares to shoot.

Furious, the Devil reaches for him, its claws extended, and swipes the gun out of his hands. It lands with a thump across the yard, and Alfred is left defenseless as he gapes at the monster in horror.

The Jersey Devil is bigger than he remembers it being in 1740, Alfred thinks, almost hazily as he watches it move closer and closer. That's when his flight instinct takes over: just before the beast lowers its head to snap at him, Alfred is up and running toward the forest. The Devil follows him with a furious shriek, but for now, he's faster than it.

He winds up running through the forest for almost ten minutes, dodging branches and bushes as best he can in the darkness, before he finally stumbles over the uneven ground and goes tumbling down. He manages to catch himself before his head smacks the dirt, but he doesn't have enough time to lift himself up again before the Devil is there, screeching and flinging itself at him.

Alfred kicks wildly as his grabs at him, his fingers digging into the ground in an effort to pull himself away. He screams, the first sound he's made since the beast showed up, when he feels the Jersey Devil's talons sink deep into the muscle of his left thigh. "Oh, fuck," he growls as he tries to shift away. That makes it worse, though, and his leg burns where the monster's claws are tearing through him.

"Fuck," he snarls again, and swings a fist at the thing's grotesque head as its teeth snap at him. When his punch lands on its nose, it jerks back with a growl, dazed. The movement of its claws, still buried in his skin, sends pain shooting up Alfred's spine. His blood is leaving the dirt sticky and wet—he can feel in soaking through his jeans, and it's leaving his head spinning.

But his fear and adrenaline are giving him strength, even more than he usually has, and when his fingers close over a nearby rock, he brings it up and smashes it as hard as he can across the Devil's face.

The Jersey Devil shrieks in pain and leaps away, two clawed arms reaching up to cover its injury. Without thinking, Alfred chucks the stone at its head and scrabbles up as best he can. He's running back toward the house seconds later and doesn't pause to watch as the beast retreats into the woods to lick its wounds.

The terror is still pounding through him, and he forgets the burning agony in his leg until he manages to fling himself up the back stairs and into the house. He doesn't know how he managed to run—the flight back through the forest is nothing but a daze—and he's not sure how he makes it up the stairs to the house's master bathroom. He comes back to himself as he dizzily tries to rinse the blood from his leg, and that's when he starts to feel the pain again, shooting through him with a vengeance.

He swallows the bile that rises up his throat as he tries to make heads or tails of the wound: he can see four long claw marks with jagged, messy edges, and he thinks vaguely that he should probably get a doctor to see to it.

(But no, he is a nation, and it should heal soon, and he's got to be in London for the meeting in a couple days; he can't afford to miss it, and everyone will be furious with him if he did and—)

He bandages the wound with old towels and athletic tape; it's a messy job, but he does as best he can with hands shaky from fear and blood loss, and swallows down some painkillers. One Advil will absolutely _not_ be enough, he thinks as he takes more than the recommended dose.

Somehow, he makes it to his bed, where he collapses, exhausted and still covered in blood and dirt. He'll clean up tomorrow, when the sun it out, when his body aches less, when the terror has faded a little, but for now, he just wants to reach the safety of his dreams.

His last thought, as he lets himself succumb to sleep, is that he'll have to cancel on Matthew.

* * *

End Notes:

The timeline of Jersey Devil sightings from the 1909 "Week of Terror" (also known as the "Phenomenal Week") are once again from The Devil Hunters' website.

Also, Netherlands in reality had nothing to do with suggesting the 1740 exorcism-that's one of the things that I've been playing around with-and the exorcism will come up in later parts, so I won't go into much detail on it right now.


	3. Chapter 3

I have no excuses for taking forever on this. But it's finally done.

Disclaimer- I own nothing

* * *

3.

Alfred's leg only heals a little bit between the night of the attack and the day he steps of the plane and into Heathrow. The wound is perhaps not quite as deep as it had been the night he tangled with the beast, but he still limps heavily when he walks, and he's not sure how much longer he can stand before it gives under his weight.

Alfred sighs in exhaustion and shoulders his carry-on bag as he waits by the luggage carousel. He's not slept much in the days between the attack and his flight to London, and he can feel the jetlag settling over him heavy, like lead. He hopes that when he reaches his hotel room, he might sleep, but he's not optimistic: he's had nightmares of the Devil every night since he fought with it, and almost as much of his fatigue comes from nights awakes as from his wounds.

He nearly falls asleep standing on line for customs, but soon enough, he's out of Heathrow and into the cab he's hired to take him to his hotel. Usually, he stays with Arthur when the meetings are in London—his brother greatly enjoys having guests over, although Alfred always finds himself fixing Arthur's electronics—but Arthur has been staying in the countryside recently and won't be back into London till late, so Alfred had decided that it would just be easier to stay on his own. He's grateful for it, he thinks, as he give the cabbie directions, because he's not ready to deal with Arthur's questions about the wound in his leg. He knows that Arthur would notice, and he knows that the man would not leave him alone until he gets the full story out of him.

And Alfred doesn't want to involve his brother—doesn't want to involve Matt or anyone else, either—in this, because the monster frightens him. If it could hurt _him_, whose sheer physical strength is the greatest of all the nations, then what could it do to those he loves?

Check in at the hotel is quick and easy, and in no time at all, Alfred finds himself collapsing bone-weary onto the bed. He'd meant to call Matthew—it'd been the first thing on his list—but he's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

For once, he is too tired for nightmares.

The next morning still dawns too early, and Alfred wakes up feeling muzzy and disoriented and wonders for a moment where he is before remembering the meeting he must be at. It takes him a good ten minutes to force himself to stagger to the bathroom, where he turns his bathwater red, and he nearly vomits, just looking at it: the skin is torn and raw and bruised around the edges. At least, he thinks, he cannot see the bone.

Alfred sighs as he re-bandages his leg, and thinks vaguely that it should have stopped bleeding now, right? Part of him wonders if there had been something on the beast's claws that prevents it from healing faster, but it's more likely the fact that he hasn't had time to rest it that keeps the wound raw and open. (He can almost hear Arthur's voice in his head, yelling at him to stay off of his feet and to give his body a chance to catch up with him.)

With a groan, he pushes himself off of the bathtub ledge, drains the bloody water, and hobbles out of the room to get dressed. He sets the percolator to brew him something strong—hotel coffee is overpriced and not very good, and usually he stops at Starbucks on the way to the meeting, but today he doesn't much care what kind of coffee he drinks as long as it gives him at least a little energy—and gathers his notes for the next few days.

"At least," he says to the room as he shoves the papers haphazardly into his briefcase, "I don't have to speak till tomorrow afternoon." He sighs. "Hopefully, I can sneak out early." Before people ask questions, he thinks but doesn't say.

He grimaces. The others would notice if he's not there, he knows, but he can dream.

Alfred nearly falls asleep again, sitting in the ragged old desk chair, when the coffee maker beeps at him. He takes a large gulp of the coffee and nearly chokes on it, but it wakes him up enough to motivate him to stand.

And with one last, longing look at the bed, he leaves for the meeting.

("Damn," he grumbles when he has to stand on the Tube, "why can't I just go home?")

The hobble in his step makes him a little late to the meeting—he hates being late more than anything—and he doesn't look a single nation in the eye as they all turn to watch him limp to his seat.

He wants to kill Prussia though—why's the ex-nation here anyway? He wonders irritably—when, cheerfully, he calls out, "Hey America, you sure are walking funny today! Who fucked you?"

A few of them echo Prussia's sentiments and ask if that's what took him so long to get in, and Australia ribs him good-naturedly, but Alfred resolutely ignores all of them and plops down into his seat beside Uruguay with a painful grimace. Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred can see Arthur frowning at him from the podium at the front of the room. He looks as though he wants to confront him, but now that Alfred's here the meeting can begin, and as the host, he holds his tongue.

Alfred refuses to look in his direction and knows that he'll have to leave quickly when the meeting breaks for lunch or else he'll never be able to avoid his brother.

Across the room, Matthew is also frowning at Alfred. Partially, it's because Prussia's comments have raised his hackles—he'd wanted to snap at him in defense of his southern neighbor, who he doesn't want to imagine sleeping with other nations—but mostly it's because that limp worries him. The other night, Matthew had woken to find himself on the floor, all tangled up in his sheets, trembling from the hazy memory of glowing red lights floating in the darkness and a burning in his leg—the same leg that Alfred can barely walk on.

The pain had faded fast, and while Matthew had pushed the nightmare from his mind, he simply has not been able to shake the feeling that something is _wrong._

He stares intently at Alfred as Arthur begins his opening speech and knows—knows in the way he knows their shared geography, in the way he knows where their mountains and lakes and plains meet and meld—that something has very badly rattled Alfred.

And Matthew's determined to find out what it is, even if he has to pin Alfred down and drag it out of him.

Even if he has the sinking feeling that he knows what it is.

It's Arthur, though, who gets to Alfred first.

He corners Alfred when they break for lunch. He's noticed Alfred's limp the way everyone else has, but like Matthew, he doesn't make light of it. He says, irritably, "All right, boy, what have you got yourself into?"

"It's nothing, Arthur, I'm fine," Alfred snaps. He tries to push past the other man, but a pointed look and a shove sends pain shooting up his left leg, and Alfred hisses and presses his hand to the wound. Arthur's eyes narrow, and his gaze focuses on the place where Alfred clutches his leg.

"Take off your trousers, Alfred."

"_What_?"

"Your trousers, you imbecile. Take them off so that I may see what you've done now."

"Arthur," Alfred sighs, "there's nothing you need to worry about—"

Arthur sends him a scathing glare, one that causes Alfred to shut his mouth with a snap. "_Do it_, Alfred, or so help me god, I will do it for you."

Alfred regards him for a long moment, but Arthur meets his eyes and does not look away. Finally, he decides that he doesn't have the energy to argue—his leg is stinging terribly, and he just wants to go to bed—so he sighs and begins to undo his belt. The corners of Arthur's lips curl up into a tiny, triumphant smile.

Taking his pants off is slow-going; the edge catches on his bandages, and he groans softly in pain, which prompts a worried frown from his brother. He manages not to stumble as he steps out of them and tries to kick them to the side. It only strengthens the aching in his muscles, so he settles for standing before Arthur.

The bandages have pulled loose a little, and the blood has already begun to soak through again, turning them bright red. Arthur breathes sharply and gets to his knees before Alfred.

"All right lad, you sit down and let me look." His voice is softer, now, has lost the sharp edge it had had when Alfred had been fighting him. He's worried; Alfred can see it in the way his brows have knitted together and in the pursing of his lips.

Alfred sighs gratefully, and lowers himself into a nearby chair. Arthur follows him, and settles in front of him. Gently, more gently than Alfred remembers Arthur is capable of being, he begins to unwind the gauze. Alfred bites back another groan of pain—Arthur murmurs something soothing and squeezes his knee—and grips the armrests.

They don't speak until he has managed to get everything off, and then Arthur swears softly. Alfred's thigh is a mess: the skin is torn and still bleeding, and Arthur can see clearly four deep, parallel claw marks. It's not so deep that he can see the bone, but it's enough to make Arthur wonder how the boy's even managed walking. Alfred, for his part, could barely look at the wound without feeling sick with terror and the memory of red glowing eyes. He breathes deeply and fights the bile rising in his throat—he can hear it growling and snapping branches as it rushes him, wings unfurled. It reaches for him, claws extended and dripping—

"Alfred!" Arthur says, "Alfred, lad, snap out of it!" He reaches for Alfred's clenched hands, where his fingernails have drawn blood, and Alfred jolts at the touch.

"Sorry, Arthur," he whispers, eyes wide, and Arthur stops and stares at him, disconcerted. Alfred is trembling almost uncontrollably, so Arthur moves to rest his hands on the man's shoulders.

"My boy… Alfred, it wasn't an animal who did this to you, was it?"

"No," he says quietly, unable to meet his eyes. "It wasn't."

"Alfred, what—" He's cut off by something outside the door, and both of them turn to see Francis standing over the threshold, eyebrows raised as he takes in the scene before him, because this is not what he expected to find while looking for Arthur.

"Well if this isn't interesting!" He says, "What this we have here? What have you two been up to?" He stops abruptly when he sees Alfred's bloody leg, and his jaw drops in surprise at the messy wound. Francis seems to notice their expressions now—Arthur's simultaneously worried and annoyed scowl, and Alfred's wide, shaken eyes—and says, "My _god_, Alfred. What happened?"

He strides in quickly, not bothering to close the door, and kneels down next to Arthur in order to peer at the injury. He reaches out to gently touch his leg and murmurs an apology when he feels Alfred flinch away from him.

"Alfred, dear, what's this?"

Arthur scowls at him and bats his hand away from Alfred's leg. "Christ, Francis, don't prod at it! He was about to say before you interrupted."

"Guys," Alfred sighs and rubs his eyes beneath his glasses. He sounds so weary that Arthur and Francis stop their bickering before they truly even begin. "Look," he continues, "I don't really want to argue about this right now."

"We are most certainly _not_ arguing," Francis states, and for once Arthur is nodding in complete agreement with him.

"Lad, you've got to tell us what did this to you. Really, boy, I don't know how you were even walking today." Arthur says, the frown that had never really left his face deepening.

Alfred bites his lips, and looks down at his lap for a moment, before shifting his gaze to the chair's armrests. Arthur is still crouched at his feet, and Alfred's not ready to look at him as he steels himself. He'd been trying to forget the monster haunting his dreams.

He hadn't managed, but the meeting had been a decent enough distraction.

"Darling," Francis begins, but it's only when he notices Matthew standing in the doorway that Alfred feels brave enough to answer Francis.

He can see Matt's eyebrows raised in surprise at the three of them gathered there, Alfred sans pants, but before Matthew can speak, Alfred says, grimly, "It wasn't animals getting my chickens."

"Alfred," Matthew breathes, paling, "are you sure?" Unconsciously, he brings his hand down to touch his own thigh, where he'd dreamt of searing pain.

"Wait a moment," Arthur says, "Matthew, you knew about this?" He glares at Matthew somewhat accusingly, as if to say, _and you hadn't stopped him?_

"What's this about chickens?" Francis asks, at the same time Alfred speaks.

"'Course I'm sure. I think I'd know the Devil when I see him."

And that, of course, stops all other conversation, as Arthur and Francis both turn to gape at him.

Matthew takes the opportunity to say, "He called me the other day. Said his people were getting caught up in those old Jersey Devil stories, because chickens have been going missing all over town. But I thought you'd suspected bears or coyotes?" He directs that last sentence to Alfred, who shakes his head solemnly.

"I thought wrong. I waited the night after I spoke to you, 'cause I'd hoped to chase whatever it was away. Except it wound up chasing _me_ instead. And, well…" He gestures with a grimace to the unwrapped wound on his leg.

Matthew comes to kneel beside Arthur, and touches gently fingers to Alfred's thigh. "I'd had the feeling," he says, "that something wasn't right. Do you have any clean bandages, Al?" He stands to retrieve them, when Alfred points at his briefcase, and briskly sets about winding them around Alfred's leg.

"I had a dream," Matthew tells the others, "that I was being chased by two red lights, and when I woke up, my leg felt like it was burning and I couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible had happened." He and Alfred lock eyes for a moment, and Alfred tries to smile weakly at him.

Matthew strokes him gently, and opens his mouth to soothe him more when Arthur clears his throat.

He looks vaguely embarrassed—although Francis watches the two of them with interest—and says, "And that's what exactly what happened to you, isn't it Alfred?" He shifts a little, and groans as he stands to lean against the conference table.

Alfred shudders visibly, but nods, and Arthur sighs. "Don't worry, my boy. We'll help you."

"But," Alfred starts, "I don't want…"

"No." Francis touches his shoulder softly. "Obviously, you cannot see to this on your own. Alfred, darling, we'll not leave you alone."

He speaks so gently that Alfred can't control the trembling of his lips or the tears that rise to the corners of his eyes. Matthew, kneeling beside him, pulls him into his arms and lets Alfred press his face to his shoulder.

"Guys…" He doesn't know what to say, so he lets his voice trail off. It doesn't really matter, though, because his companions know, and they share the silence until Arthur straightens and sighs.

"We don't have enough time for you to tell us everything, Alfred, but we'll talk more after the meeting. There're only a few hours left." He bends to grab Alfred's trousers and with a little help, Alfred manages to get them back on. They usher him over to his assigned seat, and as he makes himself as comfortable as he can, Arthur continues: "You'll come home with me, of course—no, boy, don't you roll your eyes at me; someone's got to look after you—and I'll make supper and—"

"_I_ will make supper," Francis interrupts.

Arthur ignores him though and says, "_We_ will make supper, and then we'll discuss what can be done about your monster. And we'll all be going back to the States with you, of course." As he speaks, he fusses over Alfred; he tugs at his jacket and straightens his tie and even tries to scrub his cheeks—Matthew snickers as Alfred bats his hands away. Alfred attempts to look indignant at Arthur's mother-henning, but he's smiling easily, feeling better than he has in days, and no one is fooled by his acting.

Arthur shooes Matthew and Francis back to their seats just as the other nations begin to file back into the meeting room, and as Alfred leans into his chair and watches them, he feels some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Fighting the Devil is not quite so daunting, now that he doesn't have to do it alone.

* * *

I wanted to thank you all for your lovely comments; I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Also, thanks to everyone who let me complain to them about everything when I got frustrated.


End file.
